Rules of Engagement
by Tasogare-Taichou
Summary: Every game has rules, even those of the mind and heart.


Rules of Engagement

Pairing: IchiRuki

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I may wish I did, hope I did, fantasize that I did, but I don't. That being the case, if I DID own Bleach, you can bet there'd be a helluva lot more hot IchiRuki action going on.

In the darkness, velvet night lit only by the hellfire dawn of the kidou that flashes from her hand, she watches him. Watches the coil and stretch of muscles, the sheen of sweat on tanned skin, the pull of black and white and cloth and the flash of steel. Studies the rhythm of his panting as he stands down his foe, always unafraid, cocky self-assuredness warring with the youth that still paints his face and the agedness that rests within almond-hued eyes.

He knows she watches, and she knows that he knows. Just as she knows that when it is her turn, her time to dance with the shadows, to whirl the white blade with a dancer's grace and slice the air with ice and power and a bone-chilling shaft of cold, he will be watching her, fire-rimmed eyes blazing with an intensity reserved only for her, a leashed passion matched only by the determined fire in her own violet gaze, that fire that she directs towards him.

Watching, always watching but never touching. Never giving in, always a dance, a battle, a struggle betwixt them. A boundary they skirt and flit about, touching and brushing in such teasing ways, yet never crossing. There are rules, after all, to this game that they play. Lines and structures and systems there are; to this game, this dance of words and gestures, of furtive glances and stolen almost-touches.

It's in their eyes, when fathomless violet meets smoldering amber. A dare, a taunt, a jest. Teasing and pushing and twisting it's way through every interaction, every word and feeling. Tempting, singing, purring through her mind as she knows it must growl through his. A plea, silent and tremulous, yet carrying the weight of so much behind it. Begging and whispering, tempting and touching with promises and hints and fantasies unexplored beyond her innermost dreams.

But that is all it can ever truly be. For touching it, reaching out and piercing the veil of shadows, lifting the darkness and the depth and sultry whispering tones from the truth is against the rules. As is everything it promises with each sirened purr. And it is for that reason, that they prowl the edges, watching in the night, heavy looks cast to each other.

Their worlds are different, he a human, she shinigami. Different, separate, joined together by the tentative and fragile thread of fate, and yet still divided. Not by time, nor space, nor even reason, but by the rules. The rules of her world or the rules of his, it matters little which rules they cling to, when the final tally is made.

She hates the rules, and in his eyes she can see that he hates them as much, resents and despises them for the facts and truths they represent. A future divided, walking paths side by side but never together. So much is there, boiling and seething just beneath the surface, held and kept in check by those same rules, and yet it seems at once so strong and so weak, and she can't help but wonder what it would be like, how it would feel to throw those rules aside and give in, submit to the wild abandon of fire and emotion and smoldering feelings and sensations that beckon from every turn, every chink in the solid armour of duty and friendship they wear.

He hates the rules, and hates that as much as he wishes to fling them away and give reign to the demons, she holds him in check. Without even a word, a glance, a motion, reminding him and restraining him, pulling the rules back around them, hiding the truth behind scathing words and smug superiority, even though he can see it in her eyes, see that she chafes against the bonds as much as he does.

It's so tempting, to abandon the façade, to let loose hell and all it's fire and passion, to allow it to consume her, but she mustn't, mustn't lose herself in it's fury, lose her resolve in the firey heat of his gaze. There are rules, after all. Rules that she reminds herself of yet again as he dispatches his foe with a final blow, chest heaving, pointed gaze swinging from it's target and unerringly finding hers. And for a moment, in the heat of his stare, she forgets the rules, and forgets to leash the flames. And only for an instant, does she see an answering blaze behind his own irises, burning there, beckoning and calling to the answering fire in her own soul. And for a moment she lets go, as one hand reaches up, fingers seeking hair that mirrors the conflagration in his eyes, the warmth so deep it threatens to burn her.

But even now, there are still rules. And the hand stills, fingers curling into a fist and dropping, the gesture incomplete, vacant, empty. And pulling back while the wildfire roars it's rage into her mind, she can see in his eyes that he understands, that he knows. Rules are rules. And this game is no exception.


End file.
